The SandBear Incident
by Ikonopeiston
Summary: Nooj prepares to try out for the Crimson Squad


This is a one-shot lifted from later in the AU book I seem to have stumbled into.  
  
  
  
The Sand-Bear Incident  
  
This particular course had been selected because the terrain was similar to that in the area where the most heated battles were being fought. Sandy dunes littered with shingle and the occasional boulder stretched into the near distance with coarse grass bounding them on the side toward the sea. The low foothills that surrounded Bevelle formed the other boundary and generally afforded privacy from the eyes of casual passers-by. Just to make sure, a squadron of sentries had been requisitioned from the Council and, after some grumbling about the purpose to which they were to be put, supplied. There were too few people living in this area to pose a real problem, but Nooj had been adamant in his insistence that he not be observed during the exercises. The ground underfoot was moderately treacherous with small stones and hidden hollows but it was a fair representation of the surface upon which he would have to maneuver and he knew he must test himself against realistic conditions if he was to have any chance at all of resuming his profession. In spite of his determination, his pride cringed at the thought of civilian spectators watching him fall.  
  
Beclem looked at his captain with satisfaction not unmixed with trepidation. The figure in the scarlet body suit was poignantly familiar even with the fierce sun sparking little fires from the metal cane and limbs. The shape of the man standing with his legs straddling the ground as he had always done and his shirt opened half way to the waist against the heat of the day could be none other than that of Nooj. If the trainer squinted just a little, he could almost convince himself that nothing had changed and that this was just another of a lengthy series of training missions he had arranged for his leader. A surge of nostalgia so intense as to be nearly disorienting swept over him as he longed for time to run backwards and erase the past six months.  
  
"Beclem! I need you!"  
  
"Yes, captain." The Prydain nearly saluted although that was not customary amongst kinsmen.  
  
"I'm going to start with the sword."  
  
"Better use the gun; you can practice the blade in the gymnasium. While we're out here better get your eye sighted in." Beclem was firm.  
  
Nooj shook his head, the lock of hair that fell from forehead to chin whipping in the freshening breeze. "I don't want to commit myself to a gun until I'm convinced that I can't handle the sword on this sort of ground."  
  
"You're not committing to anything. You've been putting off firing a gun since you got back. You've got to do it sometime and it might as well be now."  
  
With a shrug, Nooj moved toward the rack of firearms and picked up a projectile weapon, a heavy affair with a thick barrel and a vicious bayonet fixed below. He swung it easily into firing position and said, "If you insist on a gun, I'll start with this one."  
  
One of the armorers held up a thickly padded fur that was meant to be strapped over a shoulder to cushion the recoil. "Right or left, sir?" he asked.  
  
Nooj paused in confusion for a moment. He hadn't considered that he might have to change his firing style. He had always held a gun against his left shoulder, now he was unsure of what would be better. "Right." He decided on impulse – he could always change if that didn't work. With the massive weapon slung over the pad, he made his way to the firing stand.  
  
Crusader training courses were designed by the corps but constructed and maintained by the Al Bhed as the result of a temporary coalition of convenience. It was also Al Bhed who rounded up the fiends to be used as targets, using tranquilizer darts so as not to damage the creatures, and secured them in hidden bunkers to be released as needed.  
  
At the stand, Nooj checked his equipment and his preparations. Summoning a nearby Al Bhed, he muttered, "Make a note; do something to dull the surface of these damn' machina. I can be seen a mile away."  
  
"No problem," said the technician, scribbling in a grubby notebook.  
  
Once more the man in scarlet looked around the site. "Get all these people out of here; I'm not on exhibit!" he shouted.  
  
There was a general exodus from the area until only Beclem, Droga and a few sentries remained in sight. Beclem, noting that his captain's face was tight and pale, positioned himself so as to be ready to help if it became necessary. He turned to Droga and spoke softly, "I wish he'd start with an element gun; they're lighter and don't kick as much."  
  
Droga answered at the same volume, "What good would that do 'im? 'E knows 'e can shoot; 'e wants to know if 'e can stand up while 'e does it."  
  
"Release!" A fiend sprang from a hidden trap to the far right. Nooj turned swiftly and, dropping his cane in favor of both hands on the gun, killed the creature with a single shot. He staggered as the gun smashed against his shoulder but held his balance although it took him several seconds to recover completely.  
  
"Well done!" There was relief in Beclem's voice. "Want to try an element gun now?"  
  
"One shot does not a marksman make," was the mocking reply. "Release!"  
  
Fifteen Ferals, fifteen shots, fifteen kills later, Nooj lowered the gun and beckoned to Beclem. "Now, I'll try the flame rifle. Are there some distant targets available?" He tried to suppress a satisfied smile as he reached for the smaller weapon.  
  
"I'll check." He called to a distant Al Bhed keeper. "OK, they'll release the far ones."  
  
Nooj had no difficulty controlling the lighter gun but his aim was badly off and he downed only two of the fiends with one shot; the others managed to elude his efforts until they were relatively close.  
  
"Damn!" He threw his spectacles to the ground and snarled at the blurred shapes around him. "Can't something be done about my vision?"  
  
Droga phlegmatically handed the spectacles back to him and promised, "We'll 'ave some new scopes fitted on these guns before you practice again. That oughta 'elp."  
  
"It had better. ...Put away the rifles and long guns; I'm going to try the pistol next," he said, drawing his personal weapon from his hip holster.  
  
"I'm not sure," Beclem retrieved the rifle. "I don't think that's heavy enough for the beasts kept here."  
  
"I have to know. Stand away. Release!"  
  
From behind him came the roar of a sand-bear; Nooj attempted to spin around but the creature was near, too near and he was forced to step back. The uneven terrain betrayed him as his right foot slipped on a rounded rock and he fell heavily to the ground, twisting, landing face down.  
  
It all happened in a blur – the bear was upon him slashing, biting at his back while his companions struggled to break free of their shocked paralysis in time to make the kill. A fusillade of projectiles seemed likely to literally blow the fiend away from the fallen man. After minutes that seemed like hours to the frantic men, the beast gave a final strangled cry and collapsed, burying Nooj under its bulk.  
  
Beclem plunged forward, physically pushing the corpse of the sand-bear off his kinsman, horrified by the sight of the blood dying the scarlet clothing a deeper red. Desperately, he clawed at the metal shoulder, pulling the motionless man over and frantically searching for signs of injury and life. It was then he noticed that the pistol was not in Nooj's hand but several feet away.  
  
He looked into his captain's eyes and all pretense about Deathseekers died between them. "Why, Nooj?"  
  
"Why not? ... We won't talk about this here," he was scrabbling to regain his feet, groping for the cane and trying to fend off the helping hands suddenly surrounding him. "I'm not hurt. ... That could have happened to anybody. Damn it! It was my good foot that slipped. We're not finished.  
  
"Yes, we are, sir." It was Droga, "That was the last fiend; we was saving it for a big finish and now it's finished. In a day or two we'll 'ave some more and can keep on but now...."  
  
With a suspicious glare from under his brows, Nooj nodded and limped painfully toward the floater waiting to return them to the townhouse.  
  
In the massage room on the second floor, Nooj lay on the table wearing little more than a sheet while a therapist worked on the damage done by the bear.  
  
"Good thing it got hold of your machina side. Not much more than some chipped paint there. And this – "he dribbled an antiseptic potion into a deep tooth mark and watched imperturbably as his patient winced. "You won't be sitting down too easy for a day or two. Let me get this long one and I'll be done."  
  
"Just finish and get out," Nooj snarled as he turned over. "Beclem, is there a place nearby where I can practice on more long-range targets – and some flying ones, of course? I need to improve my accuracy before I get involved in trying out for the Crimson Squad. ... Never thought I'd have to turn to you for information on training facilities. Another thing, make sure the Al Bhed supply those new sights as soon as they can."  
  
Beclem waited until the therapist had left the room and, making sure the door was closed and locked, came over to the table. "Want to tell me why you did it?"  
  
"Why I did what?"  
  
"Don't start that game again; you know what I mean – you dropped your pistol when that bear came at you. You dropped the pistol and ..."  
  
"I fell. You saw me fall when I stepped on that rock."  
  
"I also saw you drop the pistol before you fell. You disarmed yourself and stood there empty handed before you turned and fell. You were trying to die. Look, Nooj, I had the exercise recorded and I've just come from viewing the sphere. You can't deny this anymore, not to me; you're trying to die. Why did you do it?"  
  
Nooj did not meet his friend's eyes as he answered softly, "I don't know why I did that today. I didn't intend to. For some reason, when I saw the bear – how big it was and how close – it seemed the right time to just give up, to stop pretending. It looked so easy.... If the rest of you hadn't been so quick." He closed his eyes and covered them with his right forearm.  
  
"What were we supposed to do – let it eat you while we watched and applauded your stoicism? No, I'm not just talking about today but all of it. Why are you so set on death?"  
  
"If the reason isn't obvious to you, what can I say? - It's getting more and more burdensome to keep this up and I'm tired of trying to explain. I'm tired and it doesn't seem worth making the effort any more. Let it alone."  
  
"Is this why you want to get in the Crimson Squad? Are you planning to do this when you get to that cave?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you want me to help you get there so you can walk unarmed into that murderer's den – that charnel house?" Beclem was outraged.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I won't do it! You're my captain and my kinsman as well as my friend. I won't help you kill yourself. You know me better than that. Nooj, we're Warriors, not Deathse...!" Beclem stumbled on the word.  
  
"See, you can't even say it. Well, try again – Deathseeker, Deathseeker, Deathseeker. It's just a word. If it describes me ... I accept it." Nooj swung his legs off the table and stood, the sheet wrapped around him like a toga. "I'm asking for your loyalty, your allegiance. I don't expect you to put a muzzle to my head and pull the trigger or swing a sword at my outstretched neck. I'm hoping you'll help me get to the proving ground so I can do the rest myself. You know the drill. I must put as deniable a face on this as I can."  
  
Beclem absently reached for fresh clothes and handed them to his friend. "Don't ask me to do this."  
  
"Who else?" Nooj asked as he summoned the Hypello to help him dress. 


End file.
